


metaphorically, this ghost is you

by Cloudnine101



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 09:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4741337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Matt's lip twitches. "You're good at this," he says. "You could make it into a business."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Nelson and Murdock, latter deceased, former not so?" Foggy shrugs. "It's got a ring to it."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	metaphorically, this ghost is you

It's a small funeral. Quiet. There are five people, not including the vicar - Nurse Claire and Matt's ex - Elektra, with the weird hair - and Brett and Karen and Foggy. And Brett didn't even like him, so that doesn't count, and Elektra keeps on smiling, that sick little rigor mortis grimace, and Claire won't stop crying, and Karen doesn't even look at it. Just stares at the ground, silent.

It's held in Matt's church, which is fitting. Karen thinks so. She holds Foggy's hand, and rests her head against his shoulder. And this is what Matt's life has boiled down to: six people in a church, standing around a hole in the ground, and one of them is crying and one of them is almost laughing and that is _it_.

Foggy has to go into the bathroom to breathe, because this is too much - and then he goes back in, and the vicar talks, and Foggy stands above the coffin and feels absolutely nothing at all, because he's empty. He's been hollowed out, and Karen keeps on looking at him, as though he should know what to do, which he doesn't.

After the service, they drink champagne out of paper flutes, and nobody says a word. Claire's eyes are red-rimmed. Karen takes her to one side, and they speak alone, and quietly. Claire's eyes keep flickering back to him. Vaguely, it occurs to Foggy that they're talking about him, but he doesn't care. He's too numb. His mouth is thick. He's nauseous, faintly - but most of all, he's tired. He wants to fall into bed and never think about anything ever again.

Brett's hand is warm on his shoulder. "Hey," he says.

Foggy doesn't reply. His words are heavy.

At any moment now, Matt's going to come striding up the stairs, with his cane and his smile and wet hair, and say surprise! I'm back! You couldn't shake me off that easily! And Foggy will hate him and hate him and hate him, but it will be far, far preferable to the alternative.

They'll go back up to the apartment, and Matt will explain how he did it - something to do with bombs and contacts and grappling guns - and Foggy will shake his head, and not take in a word, and tell him to be more careful. Matt will say, I'm a vigilante, Foggy, that's in the job - and Foggy will cut him off with a yeah, but you're still my responsibility, and Matt will look at him and grin.

After a while, Brett stomps away, boot heels ringing, and then Foggy's on his own again. It's a dry day. The rain's cleared up nicely.

 

 

Elektra is the first to go. She tosses back her hair, and she walks away, and she presses a kiss against Karen's cheek. Claire goes next, with a press of Foggy's hand and a promise to call later; and then Brett leaves, with a slap to his back and a murmured apology.

So then it's just the two of them.

Karen looks across at him, and Foggy summons up a smile. "It could've been worse," he says. "There could've been fritters."

Karen laughs. She stares at her hands. "Do you think we could have - ?" _Done something. Been there. Stopped him._

 _Yes_ , Foggy wants to say. _Yes, we could. Yes, we should. We should have pulled his ass back from the ledge and tied him to the chair until he stopped._

"You know Matt," he says. "Nobody could ever stop him doing anything."

Karen nods. "True," she says. "Are you coming over? I'll pay for pizza."

"Cheepstake," Foggy says. "You won't."

Karen shrugs. "The intention's good."

All of a sudden, it strikes Foggy that they are sitting a few feet away from the casket with Matt Murdock's dead body in it, and laughing over pizza and paying the bill.

"I just can't believe it," Karen says. "He was so - it seemed like he knew what he was doing, all the time. Like nothing could ever go wrong. He was so stupid."

"Yeah," Foggy agrees, but it doesn't sound real and he knows it. The vicar walks past them, and Foggy smiles up at him, straining. "I think I'm going to head home. See if I can catch a break."

Karen's eyes are worried, but she isn't disagreeing. "Get some rest," she says. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

Foggy nods. "Yeah," he says again. "See you."

Karen watches him stand up, and smooth down his suit, and go out the door and down the steps and into the breeze. Foggy pats his pockets for cab money - and when he doesn't find any, he walks.

The day's crisp. Leaves crunch beneath his feet. There are kids playing on the side of the road, kicking a ball back and forth. Foggy watches them for a little while, sitting on the wall with his hands in his pockets.

Foggy buys an ice cream. He eats it on the way to the apartment

 

 

Marci wasn't at the funeral, and Foggy isn't surprised. There's a message on the phone, though, and it goes like this: I'm sorry. It's in more words, and there is cursing, but that is the core of it.

Foggy makes a note to call her back. He goes into the bathroom, and he splashes water on his face, and he opens up the fridge.

When he goes back into the living room, it's quiet - and this is when it first hits home. The silence. Because oh, oh - was it awful enough before - but now it is unbearable. Now it is not just emptiness. Now it is the aching - the tears pricking his eyes, and the knowledge that it will never be loud again.

Matt has died, and all Foggy can think about is the fact that he will never speak to him again. Matt will never grow any taller. He'll never borrow Foggy's shirts. He'll never go to England. He won't never go anywhere. He won't laugh with Foggy over Star Wars. He won't spill cornflakes down his shirt. He won't put his hand in the crook of Foggy's arm, and lean in close to him, and puff his breath all down the side of Foggy's face.

Foggy sits down on the sofa, and he cries for five minutes, and then he cries for five minutes more.

 

 

"Nelson," Marci says - and Foggy could cry with relief, but she isn't _pitying_ him. She's just as brusk and blank as ever. "Talk to me."

"Well, I'm out of sugar, the flat's a tip and Matt's dead, so I'm not the greatest." And it is real - because Matt's dead, Matt's dead, Matt's _dead_. "Oh God."

"Breathe," Marci says. "Find a bag. I'm coming over there." And she hangs up.

 

 

Marci arrives fifteen minutes later, holding a box of doughnuts. She knocks on the door, and Foggy doesn't get up to answer it (because Matt's dead, Matt's dead, Matt's _dead_ ) until he hears - "So help me, Foggy, I'll break down this door if I have to."

So Foggy opens it. Duh.

 

 

Marci walks him to the couch, and puts his head between his knees. While Foggy breathes, she walks around the flat, flapping around random cushions and shoving t-shirts and boxer shorts into drawers (Matt's boxers, Matt's cane, propped up against the wall).

By the time Foggy's ready to look up again, there's a plate of doughnuts in front of him. Marci's frowning at him over the top of him.

"You're a mess," she says.

"Thank you." Foggy feels his lips stretching out. It doesn't feel natural. "Want some juice?"

Marci just looks at him.

 

 

They have juice. Marci sips at hers. Foggy drains his glass in two gulps. He washes it up in the sink. Marci leans against the wall, arms folded across her chest, and picks her nails.

"You could have cleaned," she says. "There's dust. You have allergies."

" _Matt_ had allergies," Foggy says, and Marci looks at him as though he's grown a second head. "Sorry."

"Apology accepted," Marci says, and drops his eyes.

 

 

"You know what I don't get?"

Marci hums. She's sitting on Matt's side of the couch, but not in the same way he sat, natural and fluid. She's got her shoes kicked off, and her legs out, right at home already.

"Enlighten me," she says.

"Why doesn't Gill just give up? I mean, come on. He's never getting out of that tank. So why does he keep trying? There's no point. And even if he does get out, where will he go? He'll swim and swim, and he'll never get anywhere. It's pointless. You shouldn't be telling kids this."

"Foggy," Marci says, and looks across. "It's a Disney film."

"Still," Foggy says. "Life lessons." He breathes in, and breathes out. There's heat churning in his stomach. Heat and energy. He could run a mile.

Marci throws a piece of popcorn at his head. Foggy catches it between his teeth, grins, and swallows.

 

 

Marci has to leave, eventually. She has work in the morning - unlike Foggy, because for now, the firm's doors are shut. Locked. Padlocked. Karen's not there, and Foggy's not going, and Matt will never be back again.

"We're going out," Marci says. "I'm taking you dancing."

"I can't dance," Foggy says. "Never could. My dad said I had two left feet."

"It's never too late to learn," Marci says. "Shut up."

Foggy mock salutes, and closes the door. He rests his head against it.

 

 

The TV's still blaring. Gill's gone, now, and Nemo and Dory - but there's some sports game on the screen, so that's alright.

Foggy watches it for an hour, and doesn't take in a thing.

He falls asleep on the couch. He doesn't touch his doughnuts.

 

 

When Foggy wakes up, the tap is dripping. Or something. There's water trickling and dropping, and Foggy can't find the source. As he wakes, it gets less and less - and he probably imagined it, because his throat's dry and rasping from the salt, and he needs air.

Thrusting the blanket off his face, Foggy wrestles himself to a sitting position. There's a second where he's floating, and then it all comes back, in a heavy weighted rush, to sit on his chest, and he forgot. For a second, he forgot.

That's not right. It's not fair. If everybody did that, there'd be nothing of Matt left to hold onto.

"Hello?" Foggy calls out. "If you're a burglar, just - take it. My best friend's dead. Have whatever you want."

No answer. Foggy waits. Going to his feet, he casts around for a weapon, and snatches up the popcorn bowl. It's not exactly a baseball bat, but he could probably get in a decent swing with it.

"I've got a gun," Foggy says.

"No, you don't. I'd have known."

Foggy drops the bowl, and the door opens. And there he is. Easy. Simple. Quick. Like those microwavable meals, except a person, and right there.

"You're dead," Foggy says, because that seems to be the only thing he can say. Matt's standing on the carpet, dry and fresh, and not dripping and laid out in the morgue with his eyes shut and his hands stretched out, still waiting. "Matt. You're - you're dead."

"Foggy," Matt says - slow, quiet, calming. "It's okay. It's all going to be fine."

Foggy shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, no, no. You can't - you can't do this. You can't just walk back in, and - and - "

Matt's brows draw together. His lips are a thin line. He's still wearing his glasses, and they're falling down his nose, and he's dry and perfect and not alive. Matt steps forward, and he reaches forwards.

And that's too much. Way, way too much. Foggy stumbles over his own feet, and he slams up against the wall, and Matt's too close, and he walks away, goes into the kitchen and shits the door and looks at his reflection in the window.

Matt could come after him, if he wanted to. The doors aren't locked. But he doesn't, and Foggy stands there alone, gripping the counter.

 

 

Foggy comes up for air half an hour later. Matt's sitting on the couch, knees in tight, like he hasn't sat there hundreds and thousands of times before. They carried it up the stairs together, Foggy directing, Matt hefting. They bought it together.

"Foggy," Matt's saying, "I'm - I'm sorry." And he looks so pained - so heartbroken - and he has no right, no right at all, and Foggy's so angry he could break something, he could kick the walls and tear out his hair and scream.

"You're not anything, Matt. You're dead. You died. You got pushed off a building, and I tried to call you, and you wouldn't pick up, and then I turned on the news and you were dead. Dead, Matt. Do you know how that feels? To lose you? Because I do. I know. And it hurts."

Matt looks like he wants to move forward again. His lips are twisted. Foggy steps away, and looks towards the wall. Matt peers at his shoes.

"You were in a puddle," Foggy says. "A puddle of water and blood and - and I don't know what else. You were there so long it rained on you. Somebody must have seen."

Matt's mouth is tight. "People did," he says. "They won't come forwards."

"No." Foggy runs a hand across his face. Matt's head swivels towards him. "Okay. Okay. How is this happening? Am I imagining this? Because if this is in my head, it's sick."

Matt shakes his own head. "You're not imagining it, Foggy," he says. "I'm real."

"And you're back to - what? Avenge your own death?" Matt doesn't reply. "Matt."

"I have to bring them to justice," he says, "you have to help me, Foggy, I - "

"No. No, no, no." Foggy shakes his head. Matt's face swims. "I am not helping you in your - your ghost quest, or - or whatever this is. No. Find somebody else."

"It has to be you."

"Why? Why me? Why either of us? Why - " Why did it happen? Why did you die? Why are you sitting in front of me? "Why are you here, Matty? Please, just - just help me with this. Please."

"I have to bring them to justice," Matt says again. "I have to find peace. You're the only one who can do that."

"Matt." Foggy's legs are leaden. He lowers himself to the sofa. Matt's warm. He's warm, and he's firm, and he's solid, and he's real. He's really, actually here. "I'm not making this up."

"No," Matt says. "You're not."

Foggy smiles. "I couldn't if I tried," he says.

Matt smiles back at him, pale and wan, and so, so alive.

 

 

Foggy makes more juice. He also makes coffee. Matt turns his down, so Foggy drinks it as well, because you can never be wide awake enough at two in the morning.

"I'm sorry I woke you," Matt says.

Foggy shrugs. "I wasn't getting much sleeping done," he says. "Got to be proactive, Matty. Kick some butts. Save some souls. The whole shebang."

Matt's lip twitches. "You're good at this," he says. "You could make it into a business."

"Nelson and Murdock, latter deceased, former not so?" Foggy shrugs. "It's got a ring to it."

Matt laughs breathlessly. He shakes his head. "God, Foggy, I'm so - "

Foggy holds up a hand. "If you say grateful, I'll kick your ass," he gets out. "Okay. So. Okay. What can you - remember?"

Matt nods. He sucks in his lip.

"There was a man," Matt says. "And a woman." 

"Matt," Foggy sighs. "You're not giving me much to go on, here."

Matt makes a little frustrated noise. "It's all I have," he says. "She came up in front of me, and we fought, and then he stabbed me in the back and shoved me off."

Matt's breathing is solid, but Foggy knows him. He knows when he's upset. He's had years to learn the warning signs - the hitches in his breathing, the tilt of his head.

"I'm sorry," Matt says, and his chin dips. "If I knew more, I'd tell you. I promise."

"I believe you," Foggy says, "I - okay. Okay. So. A man and a woman. Can't be too difficult to find, right?" He offers up a smile, and Matt smiles back, lip quirking just so - and for a moment, it's how it used to be, and Matt's climbing in through the kitchen window with a busted grin and a black eye, and Foggy has to patch him back up again.

"We'll start in the morning," Foggy says. "Do you even need to sleep? Because I do. Badly."

"I - I don't know." Matt smiles. It's fake. "You look tired. You should go - "

"Okay," Foggy says, "no, then. Let's think this through. Kingpin wanted you dead."

Foggy," Matt says, "this will wait. Go to bed. You'll be less - we can - "

"You just want to lie around here feeling sorry for yourself." Foggy folds his arms. "No way is that happening."

"I _am_ dead," Matt says. He smiles, slightly. "I think it's justified."

Foggy snorts. "Please," he says. "You're not the one who's going to be stuck here. That's Karen, and Claire, and - me. We're going to have to deal with it."

"I didn't mean for this to happen," Matt says.

"But you knew. You knew you could die, and you didn't - you didn't think, Matt. Did you ever consider us? Even for a moment? How we'd feel, if you were gone?" Foggy exhales. He sits back. "You know why I read the paper in the mornings, Matt? I wanted to check you were still okay. I wanted to see you alive. I had nightmares where everybody else would be crying, and I'd be running around trying to find you, and you'd be nowhere."

"Foggy," Matt says. Foggy stops him.

"I didn't get a call. I didn't get a text. So I turned on the TV, because I - I wanted to check you were - and Claire was still on night shift at the hospital, so I had to tell her. And she just looked at me. Like this. And - and Karen - "

"Foggy, Foggy, Foggy, I'm so sorry, Foggy, I'm so - "

"I know you are! And it doesn't change anything! I loved you, Matt, and all you cared about was yourself! How do you think that makes me feel?"

Matt is silent. "You loved me?" he says.

"Yes, I loved you," Foggy says, "I loved you! I loved you! You were everything in my whole world, and you were my best friend, and I'd do anything for you, and you're dead! I can't bring you back!"

Foggy rubs his eyes. "The vicar said that love was meant to help," Foggy says. "Help me accept your passing. Let me know that you were in a better place. But I just kept thinking - this was our better place, Matt. For you and for me. In the office, and eating ice cream, and being avocados at law. It was the best."

"Foggy," Matt says. "Foggy."

"Don't try to tell me it'll be okay," Foggy says. "I've had enough of that. Just - just tell me you'll be happy. Wherever you're going."

"I killed people," Matt says. "I deserve to be unhappy."

Foggy buries his head in his hands. "I don't know. I don't know anymore."

Matt's face is pale. "I loved you too," he says.

"What?"

"I loved you too," Matt says again. "I love you."

"You think that's going to redeem you?"

"No. I think it's a fact." Matt inches closer, so that they're sitting together, right next to one another. Flank by flank, Foggy thinks, and fights down a giggle. "Foggy Nelson, I love you."

"I loved you," Foggy repeats. His anger has drained away. It's fizzled out, into a low seething ball at the centre of his chest. He feels hollow. There's something light in his stomach, like he could float up and up and into the ceiling and through it and away.

"Foggy," Matt says. He takes Foggy's face in his hands. "Tell me if I'm wrong. Stop me."

"You're not wrong," Foggy sighs. "Sorry."

Matt gapes, and leans closer. His glasses scrape the bridge of Foggy's nose, and then Foggy kisses him. Easy.

 

 

They kiss.

It starts out gentle - a simple, chaste press of mouths. Matt's lips are chapped, and Foggy's are covered in popcorn, and everything is still. Matt furthers it - moves forwards, puts his arms around Foggy, slow and careful and tentative.

"I'm sorry," Matt says. "I'm sorry if you don't want this. Just - just - you would tell me, wouldn't you? You wouldn't just - "

"Shut up and kiss me," Foggy says. "And don't say anything." His head's spinning.

Matt does.

"Matt," Foggy says. "Hang on a sec."

"Hm?" Matt's palms fall away. He straightens up. "Do you want me to go? Because I can go."

"No!" Foggy scrambles closer, kicking a cushion away. "Don't you dare, Murdock. You're not leaving me in it again."

Matt looks as though he's been shattered. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't think."

"You didn't," Foggy concedes. "You don't think. You just - do. You help people, and you don't ask for rewards, and you take on cases we can't afford. And that's okay. I forgive you. But you know what I can't forgive?"

"What?" Matt says, voice a whisper.

"You stopping," Foggy says. "Not now. Now when we - "

"Oh," Matt says. "Oh. You as well?"

Foggy nods. "From the first week I knew you," he says.

"Did you - "

"No, I didn't tell anyone - but Karen knew, and Marci knew, and Claire probably figured it out. Heck, I think even Brett twigged by the end." Foggy shakes his head. "I was the most obviously smitten man on the planet. Period."

"Oh," Matt says, again. "So - "

"Yes, you can kiss me," Foggy says, "and even if this is some kind of weird incentive, I'll still help you catch your crooks, because I loved you."

Matt shakes his head. "It's not," he says, "I promise, it's not like that. I love you."

"Good," Foggy says. "Now we've cleared that up."

Matt slumps back against the couch. "What took us so long?"

Foggy shrugs, and says, "You? Because I was totally ready."

Matt chuckles. "I thought - you never showed any interest in men, and I - for the longest time, I thought it was wrong."

"Moron," Foggy says.

Matt's lips are warm. He's smiling against Foggy's mouth, and Foggy's grinning back, and he's so happy that it's splitting his chest. Happy, happy, happy. Weighted and leaded, but happy.

"I do, you know," Foggy says, "I love you."

Matt's mouth opens. His hand still. He seems frozen.

"Matt?" Foggy says. "What is it? Because you're giving me radio silence, buddy."

"Oh," Matt says, "oh, Foggy, no." And there is enough pain in his words to make Foggy stop. Matt's fingers are clenched in his shirt, digging in tight.

"Matt," Foggy says. "Talk to me. Tell me what's wrong."

"I thought we'd have time," Matt says. "I swear, Foggy, I didn't think - I - "

Foggy sits back. Matt is still hot against him. "Please," Foggy says, "tell me I'm getting this wrong. Please, please tell me."

Matt shakes his head. "Perfect peace, Foggy," he says. "Forgiveness."

"No," Foggy says. "Matt."

"I'm sorry," Matt says, and then he's lunging closer, pressing their forms together, shoving him back onto the couch. Foggy moves with him, back and back, and Matt's hands are cupping his cheeks, soft and tender, and then they're kissing again, and there's no air between them.

Matt tastes of blood and saltwater, and Foggy runs his tongue between his lips, and Matt kisses him and kisses him, and they move together, rolling to one side, and Foggy says Matt. And his voice breaks on the word, and he chokes.

"I love you," Matt says. "You need to know, Foggy. I love you."

"I love you too," Foggy says, "I love you, I love you, I - "

And then, in the space between one blink and the next, Matt is gone. Just like that. The couch is empty and bare. There are cracks all along the wall.

There's a puddle of water on the floor. Foggy stares at it, uncomprehending.

"Matt?" he says. His voice echoes.

 

 

Marci picks up on the third ring. "Foggy, darling," she croons, "you know I'm always eager, but it is three am. I need my beauty sleep."

"Come over," Foggy says. "Please."

There is silence, for a couple of seconds.

"Alright," Marci says, and then there is static. Foggy puts the phone down. He moves back, so that he is standing against the wall. The telephone cords hangs onto the floor.

"Alright," Foggy echoes, and goes to bed. He sleeps dreamlessly.


End file.
